Threading The Needle Part 23

When Sterling was arrested and brought to trial, the media attention made some sense. I didn't like it, but I understood it. His arrest was part of the larger story of the whole economic collapse and what had led to it. But this hounding! The macabre fascination with every detail about his suicide and our broken marriage-that wasn't news. It was a sideshow attraction.

I'd meant what I'd said to Tessa. I'm glad we've had this time together, but enough already. I want to go home!

Well. I never thought I'd hear myself say, "I want to go home," home meaning Beecher Cottage. I don't know how, but sometime between throwing Abigail off my front porch and sanding all those endless miles of wood floors, Beecher Cottage became my home. And I want to go back there, now! I've got so much to do.

I wish I'd thought to bring along that bolt of drapery fabric I bought to make curtains for the rooms. Tessa's sewing machine is old, but compared to the old foot treadle model I'd found in the attic, it sews at lightning speed. I could have finished the whole job by now. What a waste of time.

The telephone rang and startled me so that I nearly jammed the sewing needle into my finger. I couldn't find the scissors, so I quickly bit off the thread, laid aside the finished sachet, and ran into the kitchen to answer the phone.

"Woodruff residence."

"Madelyn? It's Tessa. Turn on the television!"

"Why?"

"Just do it!"

Cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear, I turned on the little television Tessa kept on the shelf with her cookbooks. It only gets two fuzzy channels, but I found the local midday news was on one of them.

The screen showed a tall, scruffy man wearing a baseball cap pulled down low to obscure his face, pushing through a sea of reporters who were all shouting questions at once. A trail of text ran along the bottom of the screen saying, BREAKING NEWS! NY BASKETBALL STAR MIKE RADNOVICH SCANDAL! BREAKING NEWS!

Mike Radnovich? Sterling's old golfing buddy?

"Madelyn? Are you watching? Mike Radnovich was caught in some sort of love quadrangle. He has four girlfriends. One is pregnant. So is his wife."

"Angela? Oh, no."

"Do you know her?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, I do."

Angela Radnovich, the only person who'd expressed any real sympathy for Sterling's death and the only one who seriously wanted to attend his funeral. I'd met her at a charity event two years before. She was standing alone next to a potted plant and looked a little lost, so I crossed the room to talk to her.

Angela was nice but young; I'm sure she couldn't have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three. She was blond, pretty, large breasted, and seemed a little out of her depth. And why wouldn't she be? Until recently, she'd worked at a car rental counter in Tacoma, Washington-that's how she'd met Radnovich, renting him a Cadillac Escalade. Now she was the celebrity wife of the wealthiest, most famous basketball player in the country. It was the fairy-tale story that millions of would-be Cinderellas dreamed about. But from the way her eyes darted around the room, nervously watching her husband talking and laughing with any number of women just as pretty as she, I guessed Angela hadn't gotten the happy ending she'd counted on. I understood, only too well.

"Poor Angela. I didn't know she was pregnant."

"Three months," Tessa said. "That's what the news reports said. I didn't realize you were friends."

"Not friends. More like acquaintances. She's a sweet girl. Very young. This must be so awful for her."

"I know but . . . well . . . you know what this means, don't you?"

I did. The sideshow had moved on, just as I'd wished. But I wouldn't have wished it on Angela Radnovich. I wouldn't have wished it on anyone. Still, that's the way things are. The sideshow pitches its tent anywhere crowds gather-last week on my doorstep, this week on Angela Radnovich's.

"Are the reporters gone?"

"Nearly," Tessa said. "Jake says they're packing up right now."

"Jake? What's he doing over there?"

"Um . . . I'm not sure. Maybe he just decided to drive by when he heard the news. You can go home whenever you want."

"How about now?"

Lee had gone to Great Barrington to drum up customers for his microgreen business. I needed a ride. "Let me call the quilt shop. Maybe I can talk somebody into covering for me so I can come and pick you up."

Tessa arrived ninety minutes later. It felt like an eternity, but I used the time to clean the guest bathroom, strip the sheets off my bed and put on a clean set, then write a thank-you note to Tessa and Lee. I left it on the kitchen counter next to a plate of cookies I'd baked earlier that morning. After that, I took my suitcase into the front hallway and paced.

I wanted to go straight home, but Tessa insisted we stop by the quilt shop first. She promised it would only take five minutes.

The Cobbled Court Quilt Shop sits in the most charming but worst located commercial s.p.a.ce in New Bern, possibly in all of Connecticut. As the name implies, it faces an actual cobblestone courtyard, built back in the horse-and-buggy days, at the end of an alley too narrow for cars to pa.s.s through. Thus, the shop has no parking. Anyone who wants to visit the Cobbled Court Quilt Shop must do so on foot.

When I was a girl, the shop was home to the old Fielding Drugstore. Back then, Fielding's was the only drugstore for miles around and so, inconvenient location or no, they did a good business. People had to buy their aspirin somewhere.

That was all well and good if you were selling drugs, something that people had to have, but quilting fabric is definitely not on the list of life's necessities. At least not for most people; the way Tessa had been talking about the quilt shop and all the fabric she was just longing to add to her "stash," I was starting to think she might be an exception to that rule.

We parked the car on the street. Tessa asked if it would be all right to make a quick detour into For the Love of Lavender, which sits a few doors from the entrance to Cobbled Court. What could I do?

"Just five minutes. I promise. No more. I want to make sure that Ivy's fine, let her know I'll be back soon. She was sweet to cover for me. You'd like her."

I'd walked by For the Love of Lavender a score of times since I'd moved back to New Bern but had never been inside. It was a charming s.p.a.ce, cheerful and inviting, with large-paned windows that let in the light, and white walls and, of course, it smelled heavenly, just like Tessa's workroom at the house. Tessa had already hung "our" quilt up on the wall behind the cash register; it really had turned out well. Ivy thought so too.

"Are you sure you don't want to try quilting?" she asked. "You have a natural talent for embellishing."

"Can't. I just don't have time right now, not while I'm trying to get my business off the ground."

Ivy nodded sympathetically. "There are never enough hours in the day. Between my kids, my job at the shop, and my other job at New Beginnings-"

"New Beginnings? Over in the old elementary school, right? A friend was telling me about some of your programs."

"That's right. I started as the liaison between the quilt shop and New Beginnings, coordinating vocational internships, but now I split my time between the two," she said. "And just in case two jobs and two kids weren't enough, I'm studying for my GED. We've got preparation cla.s.ses at New Beginnings. Someday, when my kids are older, I'd like to go to college, but first I've got to get a high school diploma. This is the first step."

Tessa was right; I did like Ivy. Our five-minute visit stretched to twenty. I left with Ivy's business card in my pocket and a promise that I'd stop by New Beginnings very soon.

Our arrival at the quilt shop was announced by tinkling from an old-fashioned set of bells that hung on the k.n.o.b.

Within seconds of coming through the door, I was encircled by women, some customers, some employees, all of them smiling and shaking my hand, saying how glad they were to meet me, and how much they loved what Tessa and I had done with her quilt. Tessa, it seemed, had brought "our" quilt to the shop to show it to her friends before hanging it.

It was a little overwhelming. They wanted to know about the inn-when was I planning to open? How many rooms would I have? How was the renovation coming along? And the quilt-where did I get my ideas? Had I ever quilted before? Why not? Why didn't I start? And Tessa-how long had we known each other? Where had we met? Was I surprised when I found out that she'd moved back to New Bern too?

What they did not ask about was Sterling, his Ponzi scheme, his suicide, or our relationship. I'm not saying they weren't thinking about it, but they were too polite to ask. That was a relief.

There were seven or eight of them, and they all talked at once and introduced themselves rapidly. It was hard to keep the names and faces straight.

Margot I recognized from our encounter in the coffee shop and because Tessa had talked about her so much. She was the religious one, who had played some role in awakening Tessa's newfound faith. I felt a little uncomfortable talking to Margot, wondering if, behind that wide smile and those sparkling blue eyes, she might be secretly judging me. But if she was, she gave no sign of it. After a few minutes I felt more relaxed in her presence.

Evelyn, who was a few years younger than me and had a very artsy way of dressing, with big earrings and necklaces and fabrics that moved well when she walked, owned the shop. Tessa had talked about her, too, told me how kind and calm she was, with an understated sense of humor. I didn't get to talk to her long enough to tell if Tessa was right in her a.s.sessment, but she seemed very nice, welcoming without being overbearing or effusive. Like the others, she urged me to take up quilting, but when I gave her the same answer I'd given to Ivy, she backed off.

"I know what that's like. When you're starting your own business, you barely have time to think, let alone take up a new hobby. Tessa says you're quite a baker. I'll tell you what, if you ever find yourself with a little time and an urge for some company on a Friday, just drop by. No notice or reservation required and you don't have to sew a st.i.tch. But there is a price for admission-the baked good of your choice." She smiled in a way that made her warm eyes even warmer.

"I'll think about it," I said, never supposing I would.

The older woman, perhaps in her late seventies, who carried a very fat cat in her arms, was Evelyn's mother, Virginia. Originally from Wisconsin, she had moved to New Bern the year before and worked as her daughter's a.s.sistant manager. She was the one who had shown Tessa how to restore my quilt. She was an expert hand-quilter.

There were two sisters, Bella and Connie, but I never did figure out which was which, and Wendy, the Realtor I'd met on my first day in New Bern, who had the strangest laugh and the gaudiest rhinestone gla.s.ses I'd ever seen in my life.

Finally, hanging back at the fringes of the group and a little behind me, was one more, a woman whose presence didn't register until she reached out and laid her hand on my forearm, just as we were getting ready to leave. Turning to see who had touched me, I came face-to-face with Abigail. Abigail wore a dark, serious expression, her eyes like storm clouds ready to split open.

"Are you all right?" she asked quietly.

"Yes," I said quickly, suddenly afraid of the catch in my throat. "Thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful. And they made things . . . easier."

She nodded mutely, accepting my thanks, releasing us both from the need to plow over old ground, then leaned close to my ear, speaking so softly no one else could hear.

"I know what it is like, my dear, to be married to a difficult man. A man who is hard to love and who, perhaps, you never loved, and then to suddenly lose him. We've led strange lives, Madelyn. We know about regrets and private grief that others will never understand. But you mustn't blame yourself or look back-not any longer than it takes to learn what you must learn. After that, let it go. The past is past, Madelyn. But you're still here," she whispered urgently and exerted a gentle pressure on my arm. "And I'm glad. You be glad too."

36.

Tessa Iglanced at my watch and decided we'd killed enough time. I tried to extricate Madelyn from the center of the Cobbled Court welcoming committee but couldn't. Not before Abigail pulled Madelyn close and whispered something that made tears well in her eyes and not before Evelyn remembered she had an old sewing machine upstairs that Madelyn might want to borrow.

"It's nothing fancy," Evelyn said. "But it was just tuned up and it has a nice, even, straight st.i.tch. Perfect for sewing curtains."

"You have nice friends," Madelyn said as we loaded the machine into the trunk of my car.

It's just a short drive from the quilt shop to Beecher Cottage, but Madelyn was jiggling her foot anxiously as I drove, as though it was all she could do to keep herself from stretching her leg over to my side of the car and stomping on the gas pedal. She was so impatient to get home.

When we pulled up in front of Beecher Cottage, Madelyn's jaw dropped and her hand flew to cover her surprise. I was glad I'd kept the secret.

She got out of the car and stood on the sidewalk for a good minute before finding her voice. "It's . . . the tarps . . . they're gone! Did someone?"

"Fix the roof?" I asked. "Yes, they did. Looks a lot better now, doesn't it?"

She turned to stare at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. "But how did you do it?"

I laughed. "I didn't, Madelyn. I'm scared of heights, remember?"

"Then who did it?"

As if in answer to her question, Jake Kaminski appeared from around the corner, whistling and carrying an armload of torn-up blue tarps, the tarps that had covered the roof of Beecher Cottage for many months.

"What do you think?" he asked. "Looks a lot better now, huh?"

He turned to look at me without waiting for Madelyn's response. "Thanks for stalling. I just put away the ladders. I'm going to toss these in the back of my truck and put them in the Dumpster over at the hardware store."

Madelyn blinked a couple of times and her cheeks flushed. She didn't look as pleased as I thought she would, but maybe I was imagining it. It was a lot to take in.

"You didn't have to do this," she said.

"I know."

"You've got a business to run. You don't have time to roof someone else's house."

"Really?" he asked, crinkling his brow in mock confusion. "That's weird because I think I just did."

"This is too much, Jake. Especially after I . . . I can't let you replace my roof!"

"Oh," he replied with studied obtuseness. "Well. Do you want me to take it off?"

Jake glanced over at me with a "has she lost her mind?" sort of expression. I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing.

"You know what I mean!" Madelyn answered in an exasperated tone. She threw up her hands. "I have to pay you for all this!"

"No," he said stubbornly. "You don't. When I heard you got your estimate from Dwight Sparks, I decided I needed to get up there and check the job out for myself. Just because somebody calls their business A-1 Affordable doesn't mean it is, Madelyn. Dwight's a cheat. And a liar. You didn't need a new roof. You will in about five years, but right now, all you needed to do was get rid of the moss and replace some of the shingles."

"What? Are you sure?"

He nodded. "I'm sure. I worked on a roofing crew after I got back from Vietnam. I know what I'm talking about. You just needed a few shingles, and since I used the ones you already had stored up in the attic, it was almost free."

"No," she argued. "Your time isn't free. I've got to pay you, Jake. I'm going to." She planted her feet and crossed her arms, a stance that I recognized as immoveable. Apparently, Jake recognized it too.

He opened his mouth wide, almost as wide as a yawn, scratched his beard, and narrowed his eyes, thinking.

"All right, then. How about a trade? My sister Mia's twenty-fifth anniversary is coming up. I want to give her something nice. A weekend at the inn?"

"A long weekend," Madelyn countered. "Four days, three nights. My best room. With flowers and a bottle of champagne on arrival. And for you, a basket of m.u.f.fins delivered to the hardware store on the first Tuesday of every month for a year. Deal?"

Jake tilted his chin and eyes upward, considered her proposal. "One more thing," he added. "You let me take you to dinner."

Madelyn let out a short exhalation of frustration, shimmied her head from side to side. For a moment, I wondered if Jake had overplayed his hand.

"No, Jake. Thank you but no. My husband just died. I'm not ready for that."

From where I stood it looked like that was that, but Jake regrouped and soldiered on. He certainly didn't give up easily. I wondered if Madelyn realized how much she and Jake had in common.

"Why not? I said I want to take you to dinner, Madelyn, not to bed."

"Jake!" Madelyn protested and shifted her eyes toward me with obvious embarra.s.sment. Determined not to show how much I was enjoying this, I kept my face blank.

Jake shrugged innocently. "Well, that's what you were thinking, wasn't it?"